I talked for you. I laughed for you. I was with you. I shared my thoughts, my quirks, my day with you. You never went beyond a reasonable reaction. I asked myself “Do I manufacture love for this?”

When I asked, you played dumb. I forgave you. But I was parched inside. To sustain myself I reached for you. You let me. I rejoiced. Then I realized that it was a substitute you were offering.

I still can’t understand you so I learn to accept you. It makes me ache inside.

And then in a tiny flash I glimpsed a secret rivalry you nurtured. I couldn’t figure out if it was your coldness that made you that way. I want to throw you to the curb and free myself, but I’m too weak to let you go, and too angry to send myself back to you.

-Stranger.

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I guess you came to me for support, fooled into thinking that I’d lay the foundation for your better self-esteem. Any other day, I’d happily help you out – interested in my own gain of a possible relationship, interested in getting those quantitative (but seemingly useless) brownie points, interested in you; any other day, really, but not today.

Yet, you still manage to squeeze in that small but substantial question between our how are yous and how are things going. You expected something to soothe your trouble (Oh, don’t worry, he’s just playing hard to get) – just like when he first said no (I think he’s afraid of commitment) or during those ugly fights (Just let him blow some steam off, he didn’t mean it). Did I mean it?

No, but I carried on attempting to get closer to you. I soon realized that the more I tried, the further you went and when things got sour, you returned for my sugar coated answers. I hate to break it to you – I really don’t – but I’m honey, no more.

Why did he go away? That’s simple: you’re plastic; a simple, hard, exterior able to form into various shapes and recycle at will. Although that usually gets the men, it’s always the reason they leave. You’re synthetic, full of bits and pieces of other men, taking in their ideas and swagger. You can’t fool them forever.

But it’s not all bad, right? One man’s trash is another man’s treasure; except, I’m not just another man.

-Stranger.

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There was just something about last night’s dream that I can’t figure out.  I woke up sweating, smiling, and out of breath.  I still felt the whisper that was left in my ear: Kiss me.  Fuck me.

A guy whose picture I saw hours before I fell asleep played the role.  I was back in the Motherland, a family reunion of some sort, and he was apparently my significant other.  We had a mansion.  We had freedom.  We had everything. 

For some reason, he was forced to sleep in another bedroom (courtesy of my parents, probably), but once everyone fell asleep, he’d creep in mine and we’d fuck the night away.  The feeling of cold bedsheets rubbing up and down my legs lingered throughout the dream… throughout the getaway.  For every night we were there, we stayed up.  When we heard the stir of others in the morning light, he’d quickly untangle himself from bedsheets and sprawled legs and creep back in his room.  He didn’t care, but he cared enough.

At one point, we had an argument and I threatened him: I was going to let you fuck me tonight but you’re being an idiot.  Never mind, then.

No, please no.  I’m sorry!

I got the chance to talk to my nanny from childhood, a woman I adored and called my “first mother” (before I met my real mom).  He was sitting next to me throughout the whole time, nuzzling my neck and whispering in my ear. 

Kiss me.  Fuck me.

I was embarrassed, paranoid if my nanny had heard any of it.  I declined, but eventually took on the offer later that night.

I woke up a few moments later, his breath still present on my ear.  I found myself gripping on the bedsheets, smiling. 

We operated on sex.  Not love-making, but fucking.  He was an antagonist, a jerk — whoever he was — but that’s what I liked the most.  The complete opposite of my expectations and desires, I now find myself wanting more & more…

… all because of the dream.

-Stranger.

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After years of dating, I finally come to conclude how men see me: a mere fun size chocolate. Someone who doesn’t mind get a little dirty and isn’t afraid of scratches and bites. I know why they call, why they show that other side with me: because I’m easy to open and swallowed in one bite. I melt in their mouths, not their hands – and I like it.

Yes, I’m fun size and men love me for that. But I love them more because of my size.

I never give them all of me – I give them enough to taste, never to fulfill.

-Stranger.

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How would you like to wake up one morning with a person who cares for you so much breathing on your nape, asleep? Or get off a train and see him waiting for you at the station, smiling? 

Oh, it is love for the second time. 

The kind of love too hard to translate in written form. The kind of love that would break the insurgence, the wall that pain and bitterness had built. 

To us.

-Stranger.

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I love her and the way she smiles. I love how she rests her head on my chest and looks up at me so adoringly. How she sighs when she lies down next to me. I love how soft her hair is, how she trembles and gasps at every little touch. I love that she loves me. I love that she is so easily fooled.

She talks about the future like it’s going to happen, she makes plans with me, for me. She believes so easily, she believes all the lies I feed her. I like to talk to her in a sweet voice, I like to lull her to sleep, she trusts me. I’m a bad, bad man, but she trusts me. Idiot. I’m going to teach her a lesson she won’t forget. I’m going to bend her and break her up, she’ll never love again.

When she asks me why, I’ll tell her about you.

-Stranger.

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She shook her head once more, as if waving off a bad memory. “You’re speechless now. You don’t know what to say because you know that I’m right. You know that I’m stubborn and I won’t listen. Well, that’s how it feels. Nobody listened to me. Nobody believed me. Nobody cared. The pain grew stronger. I felt hurt and betrayed by people who were supposed to be there for me. Nobody cared what I had to say because to them it did not matter. The lie mattered. I felt hurt in ways more than one. People expected me to talk about it, to share my deepest feelings. But, for what? Nobody cared. I was lied to, betrayed, hit, pushed, taken advantage of. I was the fool. I was used as a magnet of hate. I had done so little but it had turned into so much. I was set up. People believe that I have wronged many but does anybody see who has wronged me? I was hurt. The pain was so strong that I had no more emotions to spare. I was numb and left for dead. Still, nobody cared. I had my time to shine, then I was shot down. I was used and betrayed and after that, I was thrown out. I was over to everybody. So people ask me, why am I like this? What had happened to me? Well, had anybody helped me? I’ve had to be my adviser, savior, and victim. I’ve had to be the slut, whore, the skank and the bitch. Nobody told me otherwise. So why am I like this? Because I have nothing left to give. I have nothing to give. I did not choose to be silent, unaffectionate, closed up and untrusting. I was forced.”

-Stranger.

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“Do you know,” he started, pausing momentarily to collect his thoughts, “how love feels like?”

“I think I felt it once,” I answered immediately. “Or at least, it was an emotion I haven’t been able to categorize.”

He answered quickly, almost as if he was reciting some prophecy. It was unlike him.

“So you don’t know what it’s like to think you’re in love without being touched…it’s like drinking water without being quenching your thirst or not remembering your birthday. It’s like finding out water is air…it’s everything completely deplorable you could possibly fathom; something not even the deep recesses of the darkest abysses of my inner psyche can’t event stand to digest.”

I maintained my stare, completely speechless.

“You just,” he continued in a slow manner adding emphasis on each word to prove his point, “don’t know what it feels like.”

All this for a one night stand? I was curious.

He replied: “Which do you think is easier?” In that moment I knew exactly which L word we were talking about.

-Stranger.

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“Do you know his ex? Want to see a picture? The way they met is just so cute!”

Alright, I get it; I get it, knowing someone’s past is important. I understand that when people date they bring extra baggage. But do I really need to know every little detail? Must I know where that dent in his third luggage down came from? Or why the second one has this absolutely beautiful sticker covering a half of it? Or why the first is not even a luggage but a bag?

I don’t care; I want to know the person first. I’m here to grab a hold of her hand not her luggage.

-Stranger.

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Oh boy, I’m charmed. Say the word and I’ll take my pants off.

Just say the word.

-Stranger.

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